


Comfort

by marvelousmiss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:51:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelousmiss/pseuds/marvelousmiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor can't sleep, so she looks to Cullen for comfort...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

He is drowsy when he opens the door, but the chill breeze from outside awakens his awareness. She stands in front of him, her short, auburn hair tousled around her face, lips turning purple from the mountain air. It's late, dark, and she is standing in his doorway in a thin nightgown, shivering against the cold. Her cheeks are pink, bitten by the wind.

"I'm sorry," she says, in little more than a whisper, and her eyes avoid his; "but I can't sleep."

She needs company -- any company, really, though his is preferable -- and he's the only one who would let her in. The sparkling of her anchor casts an unnatural green glow over her figure. She stands hunched over herself, almost meekly. Like asking for help is uncomfortable for her. But of course it is.

It's the first time she's back at Skyhold in a while. Running the Inquisition keeps her busy, and although she gets used to brief sleeps and small, cramped camps, she has some different expectations for when she returns home. For one, she remembers her bed being much more comfortable. Now, each time she comes home, it feels too soft, too big, too warm and too cold at the same time. And that is, at least in part -- the only part she really lets herself admit -- why she can't sleep. That's at least in part why she's here.

"Oh. I -- um -- of course," he says and opens the door wider for her to enter. As she walks in, passes him through the doorway, he runs his fingers through his messy blond hair, almost nervously.

"Thanks," she says and then repeats, "And sorry."

"It's all right," comes his reply. Though he's glad to see her -- always glad to be with her -- and touched that he's the first to whom she comes, there is a small part of him that wishes he were still asleep.

He directs her to the ladder that leads to his bed. The room is admittedly poorly designed, but he tries to make due with it. She doesn't seem to much mind the layout of the room.

"If you'd prefer," he begins, "I can sleep elsewhere." There is not much where else to sleep, possibly just his desk, were he to bring down an extra pillow and blanket, but he feels obligated to make the polite offer.

This late at night, she feels less obligated to be polite. "No." The word leaves her mouth harshly, so she sighs and starts again. "I -- I want you to stay with me. Please."

They start out on completely opposite ends of the bed, each relegating their bodies to the bed's furthest reaches. But soon, he can feel the warmth of her body closer to his. Soon she feels the heat of his breath against her neck.

For a moment, they're at peace.

She sleeps curled into a ball, with her left hand between clenched knees as if it might numb the buzzing and humming of the anchor. On nights like these, it still stings. And when her nightmares plague her, when the terrors haunt her dreams, she swears that it's still spreading. The green climbs up her arm like ivy, slowly, steadily, paralyzing her body as it travels through her. And even though it's a dream -- a nightmare -- it feels so real that she thrashes against it, tossing and turning, her face damp with tears and sweat.

Every so often, he hears her cry out, and the piercing noise wakes him up. He's a heavy sleeper, sure, but attuned to the sound of her. And he'll look over at her, see her sweating, shivering from whatever horrors her mind concocts, undoubtedly worse than anything any fear demon could say. He wants to touch her, rest his hand on her body somewhere to comfort her, but will it stop her from shaking?

She's strong, bold, brave. An admirable leader. Fierce. Independent. But here, she's broken. A shattered remnant of whomever the Inquisitor was supposed to be, whatever the world chose to see her as. This was her permitted moment of weakness, intended to be shielded even from him. Here, now, in the dead dark of night, she was allowed to be weak, to be scared. The others wouldn't understand; they need her to be flawless. A figurehead. Godlike. In the likeness of Andraste herself. They won't let her be a person. Yet, here, in the dead dark of night, that's what she is. Not the Herald of Andraste. Not some chosen one. Hardly even the Inquisitor. Just a mage. Just a woman. A young noble of the House Trevelyan with both the best and worst lucky streak he's ever known. She's just… her.

"Inquisitor," he whispers, and he immediately regrets the formality of the title.

She stirs, ever so slightly, her brow furrowing in her half-sleep, lips pursed.

He nears her more, feeling the intense heat of her body. Is that from the nightmares or because she's a fire mage? He is unsure.

She tosses and turns in the bed, and when the moonlight from his small window graces her face, it hits him again just how beautiful she is. In this moment of weakness, she's as lovely -- or maybe even more -- as she had been at Halamshiral, dolled up with makeup and a clean Inquisition uniform.

This is the first time he's seen her with her hair down. And despite it sticking to her sweat-slicked skin, it's picturesque in color and texture. Ever so straight, albeit a bit frizzed and wind-whipped. The redness of it matching his own coat.

She whimpers in her sleep. He catches sight of the sparkling green light from beneath the bedsheet, and on instinct he says aloud her name. Her real name. The sound escapes from his lips before he even realizes it. "Raina."

He repeats it, but as a question this time. "Raina?"

Groggily, her eyes flutter open. The anchor's burn stops… at least for now.

"Commander," she says, her voice scratching against the back of her throat. From her, his title seems less formal. From her, it's playful, and his cheeks flush upon hearing it.

It takes her a moment, wide-eyed, to take in her surroundings and realize where she is. And when she does, she smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> First DA fic! (Whoot!)
> 
> I really like these kinds of pillowtalk moments between Cullen and my Inquisitor. Now to just write more of them down...


End file.
